How the green field spread open her sweets to relish of the big-eyed Sky,

And lofty trees encompass to cover her shame all in vain;

My love hangs about my neck, and ensigns my brow with pain;

Though demure Pride seeks to relieve me, but fruitless is the try.

And though that I walk the village through like this,

Terribly sick with my burden, and dying quite slowly,

Yet do I harshly reprove all reliever that pity me –

For I know, when this pain ends, even then my life doth cease!

Some aptly do stop their lives, to end their sorrows;

But this peculiar pain, where it ends, gives a worse misery start;

Who a viler role now plays, than that old pain’s gentler part –

Like a patient whose leg’s to be cut to save him, dies the instant he knows.

So this pain, by soft relief, begets a viler son,

Who excels his father in all his exploits, and wreaks a havoc uncommon!


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By Sydney Chesterfield on June 6, 2016 · Posted in Letters To Shindara by E.R. Chesterfield, Literary, Poetry, Trends

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